


i just wanna talk to you

by lohoron



Category: Silicon Valley (TV)
Genre: Childhood Trauma, Jared Dunn's Childhood, M/M, Tags Are Hard, Tags May Change, broke post-college students, jared cares, jared loves to read, pied piper does not exist, richard cares, richard is a librarian, they are babies, yet - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 17:09:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29986125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lohoron/pseuds/lohoron
Summary: But he likes it. He likes his co-workers (an old lady named Muriel, a younger woman named Tasha and a heavy-set boy that's about his age named Seamus). He enjoys telling people where everything is, because it makes him feel smart. He takes pleasure in offering recommendations and in getting free novels.Most of all, he really, really, likes this one customer.He’s gathered that his name’s Donald Dunn from his library card, and that he was born in 1991, and that he likes birds, Albert Camus, and studying perception. And that he’s tall and moves like he's taking up too much space. And that he has these ridiculously kind eyes and big hands.
Relationships: Jared Dunn/Richard Hendricks
Comments: 5
Kudos: 14





	i just wanna talk to you

Richard took this job for several reasons.

1\. He really needs money. Like, desperately. Living out of his car just isn't sustainable anymore.  
2\. Tech giants like Apple practically scoffed at his pathetic resumé. Yeah, sure, you got into Stanford. And then you flunked out after a semester. So.  
3\. It's nice here. Quiet and serene, not a lot of noisy teenage dickheads like at his job at McDonald’s.  
4\. And he does like books. Some of them.   
5\. He likes that he can make a mental map of the library; remembering all the little nooks and crannies. The places where books are always picked up. The places where they're never picked up.

And it's been good to him. 

For the most part. 

His boss is kind of a bitch (but her name’s Susan Doyle, so, like, what else did he expect?). Some nights get aggressively boring. Nobody comes in for hours at a time, but he’s still forced to just sit there. His favorite is when he gets to go through the returned books pile. Sometimes he takes a book or two with him. To his car. Because (as it turns out) being a book clerk doesn't really make that much money. And a broke college dropout with a credit score of 500 isn't exactly a landlord’s wet dream.

But he likes it. He likes his co-workers (an old lady named Muriel, a younger woman named Tasha and a heavy-set boy that's about his age named Seamus). He enjoys telling people where everything is, because it makes him feel smart. He takes pleasure in offering recommendations and in getting free novels.

Most of all, he really, really, likes this one customer.

He’s gathered that his name’s Donald Dunn from his library card, and that he was born in 1991, and that he likes birds, Albert Camus, and studying perception. And that he’s tall and moves like he's taking up too much space. And that he has these ridiculously kind eyes and big hands. He comes by every other day lately, handing in his read books and browsing for new ones. Richard senses that he never knows what he comes in for, and he likes the mystery it gives him.

The other thing that gives this Donald Dunn so much mystery is that Richard is too anxious to exchange any normal conversation with him.

Last time he came by, Richard greeted him by bowing. Yeah. Bowing.

It made him wanna stick his head into a toilet bowl.

Tasha always teases him when Donald walks in the door. (“There comes Prince-Charming-Who-You-Can't-Talk-To.” “ _Shut up!_ What if he hears you?!”) He always freezes and pretends to be extremely busy. 

But every time Donald leaves, Richard gets mad at himself. He knows he should've talked to him. Properly. Should've done more than steal a terrified glance while scanning his books. He should've done more than mumbling a goodbye while his hands shook. Especially because Donald was so kind. So gentle. With his little greetings and his soft goodbyes. 

So that's why Richard is now sitting in the backseat of his Honda Civic, reading a poetry book that Donald had handed back in. It's his pathetic attempt to get closer without actually needing to make the social effort. 

And it tells him practically nothing. Because Richard isn't exactly the best at analyzing books -- much less poetry books -- and he doesn't want to assume that Donald thinks any of these are any good. For all Richard knows, he could be reading Howl and scoffing. 

He falls asleep with the copy still open, his face resting on top of the pages. 

\---

“Good morning,” Richard greets, face molded into a fake smile. They just opened and there’s already three people in the store. Richard does not appreciate seeing this many faces at eight in the morning.

It's a Saturday, for God’s sake, don't these people have places to be?

Maybe he's just on edge because he hasn't seen Donald in almost a week. 

(Is this becoming obsessive?)

He doesn't think about it too much.

\---

It's right after his lunch break that Donald finally comes in.

(He’s been practicing in the mirror. Practicing how to talk. Specifically to Donald, but, yeah, he supposes he could apply it to others as well.)

He looks different this time, though. 

He’s not wearing his usual smile.

There's a hood pulled over his head, and his head points down to the floor. He’s holding his books from just a few days ago, dropping two of them into the return box, and keeping another on his person as he quickly paces over to the autobiographical section of the store. 

Richard frowns. He didn't even realize that Donald knew there was a drop box. He always hands his returns directly to Richard. 

(Oh.)

Curiosity wins. Concern wins. 

“Muriel, could you… take over for, uh- a sec? I-- I’m just gonna- uh. Check stock,” Richard stutters, blush scattered across his cheeks. Muriel smiles, pushing up her glasses as she nods.

“Of course, hon.”

Richard heads straight for the autobiographical books. Like a bad spy movie, he plasters himself against the wall and peeks. Donald’s sitting on the floor, filing through an encyclopedia of unique sea creatures. 

Richard's never been the type to have crushes.

The last crush he had was probably in elementary school. On a girl named Kailey. He kissed her on the cheek one day during recess while they were playing house and she wiped it off and that was basically the end of all romance for him. He's never had a steady partner. He's been on dates, all failed. He got to third base with a few of them. Fourth with one.

He's never made any grand romantic gestures. He's never wanted to. There's never been a person that had impressed him enough. Peaked his interest long enough. He's lonely, sure, but a relationship sounds more taxing than being alone. 

But something about Donald has made him much too curious. He can't quite place it; this feeling of desire and anxiety every time he's around. A strange fondness when he sees him sitting on the floor with a book he's never looked twice at. 

He doesn't mean to stare, but how can he not?

The window right across from Donald is sending beams of light right onto his pale face. Like he's an angel from above. A beautiful, lanky angel sent to torture Richard into thinking he could possibly be a real person with real emotions. 

And then he looks up just a bit, and Richard can suddenly see that his lip’s split. Richard can tell that there's a bruise around his eye. Spots the swelling of his eyes. 

(A swelling he knows all too well. Donald’s been crying all day.)

He doesn't look any longer. It feels invasive to do so.

Until he's back at the counter and Donald’s there, head down, not wearing his toothy smile, softly placing a stack of books down. 

“Could I buy this one?” He says, softly, edging forward a bent copy of Nausea by Jean-Paul Sartre. The book he was holding when he came in today.

Richard swallows a breath, nodding. “Uh. Yeah.” He scans the other three books, biting his lip in hesitation. “It's- uh. On me,” he mutters out, eyes wide as he tries so hard to get Donald to look at him.

And he does. He lifts his head up just a tad, peeking over at Richard with beautifully grateful eyes (God, they're so blue, what the fuck?). “Are you sure, Richard?” He asks cautiously, grabbing his three rentals and shoving them into his tote. 

Richard nods, awkward smile on his lips. “Uh, yeah. Positive. Enjoy it.” 

The corners of Donald’s mouth raise up a tad. “Thank you.” 

Richard is positive he doesn't take a single functioning breath until Donald is finally out of the door. 

\---

Richard’s car is full of shit.

Sustaining yourself in a vehicle will do that. But right now, at three in the morning, the shit that his car is full of is simply mountains of notes that he's trying (emphasis on trying) to draft for Donald.

It's been hours. So many hours of trying to sound nonchalant and casual and not like he's trying to hit on him (because is he?). God, the last thing he wants to do is scare him off or make him uncomfortable. It's just so fucking hard because:

1\. If Donald does not accept his note, he will have to quit his job  
2\. Or if he doesn't quit his job, he will have to be uncomfortable whenever Donald comes into the store  
3\. (And Donald will be uncomfortable too)  
4\. Or worse, Donald never comes back to the bookstore   
5\. Donald loses his pleasure in reading because some weird, ugly guy working at the counter hit on him and--

Richard rolls down his window and pukes into the deserted street. He makes a note to throw some water on the obscene pile before he goes into work. 

This is exhausting. He's exhausted. He just wants to sit down with Donald and pick his brain. Just talk to him. For a while. Just a little bit. It shouldn't be this hard. It isn't this hard. 

But every note he's written is so awfully crafted. He tried writing a haiku. He tried writing a haiku more times than he'd like to admit. Then he tried a rhyming couplet. Then a little bit about himself. And then he just kinda spiraled. _Not good, Hendricks, not good._

So he doesn't write anything. And he has to get up for work in four hours. 

Defeated, Richard wipes his puke-ridden mouth and rolls his window back up before returning to a fetal position in the back seat of his Honda.

\---

Donald comes in four days later, still looking absolutely awful and defeated. He waves a soft hello to Richard and Muriel and heads for the fiction novels.

“What do you think happened?” Richard asks Muriel quietly, his voice barely a whisper.

“Oh, dear,” she sighs, “I’m afraid he's got it bad.”

Richard supposed she's right. Donald’s not exactly the person to willingly get into a fight. He's not exactly the person to get bruises unless they've been forced upon him. Unless somebody wanted to really, really hurt him. 

It almost makes Richard cry. Thinking about what he must have looked like getting hurt like that. How scared he must've been.

(Richard recalls when his dad used to whip him with his belt. Or the few times he actually got a slap in the face. It's terrifyingly grim, seeing somebody you love hurt you. Watching it happen. Richard hopes Donald doesn't love the person who hurt him.)

He decides to muster up the courage. He walks after him, awkwardly pacing towards him. He’s breathing much too heavy (oh, he’s gonna scare him off), and he’s so close to him now, so close, and there’s no desk between them, and he can see Donald’s shoes (they’re blue Converse and it’s kind of unexpected but he loves them). 

There’s a small, terrified smile on his face as he tries to lean cleverly against the bookcase next to them. 

It fails, obviously.

Three books fall out of the opposite end of the shelf and Richard’s eyes widen immediately, looking back at Donald to see him chuckling softly. 

(God fucking dammit.)

“Ah-- sorry- I. Uh. Was just,” Richard mumbles, breathless, face beet-red as Donald stares back at him, “Hi. I’m. Richard.”

Donald smiles, nodding and extending his long (oh, so long) pointer finger to Richard’s name tag. “I know.” Richard looks down, seeing the tag. He squeezes his eyes shut in embarrassment. “I’m Jared. Good to… properly meet you,” he extends a hand for Richard to shake.

(Jared??!!? Who the fuck is Donald, then?)

Richard looks at it anxiously, noticing how sweaty his palms are, and he wipes them quickly on his jeans before grabbing Jared’s (Donald’s?) hand. 

(It’s so large. And cold. And Richard would like to stop shaking hands now because his palms are already sweating again.)

“Uh. Hi. Yeah. Jared, huh?” Richard chuckles, “Not to. Uh. Be a creep. Heh. But-- your card. Uh. I noticed that it. It says Donald.” 

Jared smiles, laughing softly at Richard’s awkwardly endearing set of words. “Yes! Donald is my birth name. I… someone misnamed me during my first lecture years ago and it just stuck.” 

(That’s fucking weird.)

“Do you wanna. Maybe. Uh. Grab lunch in a few minutes? Together?” Richard’s eyes are so wide. So wide. And his hands are shaking (so much, so much). And his hands are so sweaty again. 

Jared looks down, then back at Richard, and then back at his shoes. Richard knows it. He came on too strong. 

(Oh, this is just awful. Absolutely awful. Jared doesn’t wanna get lunch with you, idiot. Why would he? You’re a sweaty librarian who introduced himself to your most frequent customer. Make it make sense. Fucking idiot. I knew I shouldn’t have done this. Now it’s gonna be so weird whenever I see him. Fuck. Maybe I should quit. That way I wouldn’t have to cringe every single time I see him. From my own embarrassment. Shit. This was so dumb.)

“I,” Jared starts, cheeks flushed, “would really like that, Richard.”

Richard’s eyes widen. “Wow. Really? Gah. Uh. I mean. Okay! Yeah. Uh. I will… I’ll go get my jacket. And we can. Head out. If that’s okay? Oh, shit. Unless you wanna look at books more. Because. It can wait. I mean. Like. Whenever is good--”

“That’d be perfect,” Jared assures, smiling. “I’ll wait for you here.”

Richard can not help it. He smiles, giddy. “Okay! I’ll. I will be right back.”


End file.
